


Multa Paucis

by QuillerQueen



Series: Bread and Games [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Historical, Blanket Fic, F/M, Injury Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 18:13:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14025849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillerQueen/pseuds/QuillerQueen
Summary: Prompt 77: "Would you like to share the blanket?" Sneak peek from a future chapter of Bread and Games. Potentially spoilery and subject to change.





	Multa Paucis

The cave is…adequate. Not spacious, not quite that, but it’s shelter, and well-concealed at that. It’d be next to impossible to find if you don’t know it’s there. Robin must have sought reprieve here many times before in his thieving days, because he’s never faltered once—even with Henry’s weight in his arms, despite pain and exhaustion, his steps have been sure. Regina, on the other hand, aches and burns from neck to lower back, arms on fire from carrying small Roland, normally such a trifle—but she’s never had to do it for hours on end while braving uneven terrain as well. A couple hours of rest would do her good.

But do they have the time? Can they afford to linger? Is the luxury of sleep worth the risk?

“They’ll be after us,” she says unnecessarily, because of course Robin knows this. It’s his life on the line, too, and gods, they need to run, and fast. “We should get as far away as possible while we can.”

“They’re going to be otherwise occupied. We’ve a little time. We’d best use it while we can.”

Shit, she’s an idiot. He’s been dead on his feet since he showed up at her door, probably longer—sleepless, bloodied, covered in dirt. This isn’t just for her—he needs the rest just as much, nay more, than she does.

The sand beneath her feet is gritty and cool even through her sandals, and she’s loath to deposit Roland’s sleeping body on the cold ground. Worming her way out of the strap, she shimmies the sack off her shoulder and digs one-handed through its contents. It doesn’t come easily, not with her present clumsiness, but the thick blanket gives eventually, and she can’t help the sigh of relief when Roland is safely laid amid the crumpled heap. He mumbles something incoherent as she goes to straighten out the edges, a faint protest at having his slumber disturbed by this heinous act after not minding one bit the trek through the streets of Rome and winding paths of the woods. She’s barely made enough room for Henry before Robin’s kneeling to place her son beside his. He runs a gentle palm over both of their hairs in a sweet gesture that has her insides melting—until he’s withdrawing his arm with a badly concealed hiss.

Because he’s injured, and how in Tartarus did he manage to make it here with a nine-year-old in his arms is a damn mystery.

“Sit,” she orders.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Plopping himself down on a flat rock with a soft groan, he offers no resistance at all. Her trusty sack uncovers another blanket to place atop the boys, and a travel kit with the most essential herbs and tinctures. Robin’s cloak comes off after a bit of a struggle, and then they fumble with the leather cuirass and linen tunic together before he’s stripped to the waist.

Regina sucks in a singing breath. She’s seen wounds before, even on him, tended to uglier and graver ones than the gash presently gaping in his upper arm. It’s not the dozen or so bruises either, purple and green and everything in between covering his upper body, that make her grip his shoulder tighter than appropriate. His back is a criss-crossing maze of scars, long and angry red still, barely healed, and she knew of them, of course she did, but the sight still turns her stomach and makes her eyes burn. She should have been there to stop this from happening (she couldn’t have), or seen that Hades is duly punished for this monstrosity (he is now, isn’t he?), or given Robin the medical attention he needed (the medicus did outstanding work). Gods, is this how she’s been helping him?

Robin turns slightly to the side, her silence perhaps all too telling, and looks up at her knowingly. He’s ready with a reassurance, she can just tell, but this isn’t about her after all, and he shouldn’t be easing her mind when his need is much greater.

“I keep having to patch you up, you know,” she forces out, her stupid, treacherous voice hitching amid the would-be-teasing statement.

But Robin’s lips pull into a slow smirk nonetheless even as his hand grips hers, the two resting together at the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

“Yeah, well, you’re very good at it, if I do say so myself. I can’t help coming back for more.”

He says it in a light, teasing tone—exactly what she was going for before. Yet all she hears is the cruel truth of it, the inescapable fate of a gladiator, a slave, a convict.

“Try,” she returns, her throat dry, as she slips her hand from his and sets to cleaning the wound, sewing up torn skin, and wrapping it up in bandages. She’s being a bit unfair there, she knows, understands his flippant words are for his own benefit as well as hers—a coping technique to survive. So her response may have been a bit harsh, and her fingers work with all the more deftness and care to convey what she doesn’t trust her words to accomplish. His skin is warm, but not too badly inflamed by some miracle, and if she brushes those fingers over his bicep more often than necessary, he doesn’t seem to mind one bit.

“All set,” she say softly, packing away before he catches her hand and raises it to his lips, pressing a kiss into her palm.

There goes her stomach, all fluttery and foolish.

She’s kissed him before. On the mouth. With tongue. (Damn it, her heart picks up pace at just the memory.) So this shouldn’t be that big a deal—it’s sweet, and innocent, and non-threatening. Except that’s exactly why it is a big a deal. Because she’s not used to being treated this way. Lust, yes; but gentle affection’s been sorely missing from her love life (not that any aspect of her life deserves that title). So this easy gesture, this display of care? It scares her.

And she balks.

“We should get some sleep,” she mutters, avoiding his eyes, and could almost weep when he releases her hand at once.

“Right,” he nods, clearly chastised. “That we should.”

Without further ado, he wraps himself in his cloak, more than once the length of him for exactly this purpose, and settles next to Roland with a rather meek good night, Regina.

It’s not the least bit reproachful, nothing at all aimed against her, but the twinge of guilt is already there, and a pang of regret, too.

Curling up in the last blanket beside Henry, Regina shuts her eyes, listening to the boys’ peaceful breathing.

How long, she wonders, until Robin dozes off? Not long—he’s not slept in days, by the looks of it, and he’s injured and overtaxed.

Surely he understands her hasty retreat wasn’t a snub?

But what if he does think it’s personal? What if, much like her right now, he’s lying with his eyes wide open and his mind racing? Is he wondering if he overstepped again? If she perhaps regrets the kiss of before? Because he hasn’t, and she doesn’t. And she can’t help but wonder what might have happened if she hadn’t chickened out. Would they have kissed anew? (There’s that jolt in her chest again.) Would they perhaps, maybe, be lying next to each other now, warmer and free of gnawing doubt?

There must be some way to set things straight between them before they go sour. It’s not that she wants to be held (does she want to be held?), or that she wants to feel him close to make sure he’s okay (although obviously she wants him to be). His cloak is dirty and coarse while her blanket’s nice and soft. They’d be so much better off sharing the damn thing.

Should she say something?

Henry chooses that exact moment to turn over in his sleep and, seeking warmth and comfort, to burrow into Regina. That seals it—she’s not moving anymore, not jeopardising Henry’s sleep before what promises to be a challenging, eventful, dangerous adventure for them all. She needs to let it go.

“Good night, Robin,” she whispers, much too late, and receives no response at all.

* * *

The night’s barely begun to fade when Robin jolts awake.

The cave is dark and cool, and Roland’s no longer sprawled wide but curled up against his chest. Gods, he missed his son so bloody much. He runs fingers through those floppy curls, careful not to wake him, itching to kiss him silly with those tickling things that would always make his boy giggle. He fancies he can make out Regina and Henry breathing in unison, and sighs. They’re all safe—for now.

But he’s been reckless. There should have been a guard, they shouldn’t all be asleep, not this close to Rome. That’s a risk they can’t afford.

With a heavy heart and heavy limbs, he disentangles himself from his son and divests himself of the cloak, covering both boys and hoping that simple but superior blanket is enough to keep Regina warm. Then he makes for the mouth of the cave, shivering in the slight chill of an ever-dwindling summer’s night. Smoke from a fire would easily betray them, so he’s going to brave the cold alone.

Squinting into the omnipresent dark, Robin rubs his arms carefully. He’s sore all over, but somewhat rested and, thanks to Regina’s wondrous touch and precious herbs, healing.

Is he pressing for more than she’s willing, or ready, to give?

The kiss they’d shared in her kitchen had been incredible. Shocking and invigorating, it awakened a part of his soul that’d been dormant before. Had she felt it, too?

He thought she had, but now he’s no longer certain. She pulled away last night, not angry at least, but clearly not comfortable. Perhaps the kiss bestowed in the heat of the moment wasn’t a start of something she’s any interest in pursuing.

Leaning against cold rock, he’s staring daggers into the shadows when she approaches.

“Regina,” he whispers despite himself, and she moves closer, wrapped in that fine fabric that betrays riches despite the lack of luxury. She doesn’t back off even when their shoulders brush in the narrow opening. Instead, she takes a deep breath and offers a tentative smile. Oh, thank the gods. “Can’t sleep?”

She merely shrugs, inspecting him sideways. “Is your arm ailing you?”

“Not the arm, no. Just—sleep’s been eluding me, too. Figured I may as well take watch.” She’ll see right through that, but he doesn’t mind. She’s a smart woman, Regina, and won’t underestimate the situation. Nor will she try to convince him to rest when it could put their children at risk.

Just as he knows her enough not to try and send her back to sleep, even though they both know each of them could use the rest.

So they stand there, side by side, shoulders touching. Gazing ahead seems harder now she’s so close, and yet more imperative than ever. A cool breeze rises along with the first faint glow of the sun, and he tamps down a new bout of shivers.

“Would you like to share the blanket?”  
His head snaps to look at her, only to find her eyes a warm, molten brown, everything about her open and vulnerable as she shrugs the blanket off one shoulder and holds it out for him to slip beneath. Relief floods him, and something else, too—something she might just be interested in exploring after all as she gingerly snuggles into his side when he answers:

“Very much so.”


End file.
